The coffin of the Xian King very likely lies within the "water eye" at the bottom of the pool. I remember seeing a massive stone beam when I first reached the bottom; at the time, I assumed it was debris that fell during the construction of the royal tomb, but now I suspect it might have been the roof of the tomb passage.

We began preparations by dividing the tasks, securing the three thickest long ropes to the wreckage of the heavy bomber underwater. There was no better anchor than the remains of this "Flying Fortress"; it possessed immense weight, and its colossal structure far exceeded the diameter and suction of the "water eye."

Then, we started moving the bronze horse. The statue was incredibly heavy, but fortunately, the terrain sloped downward. Putting all our strength into it, the three of us finally managed to push the bronze horse into the water. Next, we attached the inflatable buoyancy bladder from the diving bag to the horse's underbelly. This was done so that when we returned from the "water eye," we could use the bladder's lift to counteract some of the tremendous suction from the vortex.

When we emerged from that opening, the sky outside was still pressing down with dark clouds, devoid of starlight or moonlight. The mysterious, vibrant atmosphere of the daytime—the ancient trees clinging to the pool's walls, the tangled vines, the waterfall crashing into jade beads, silver spray surging against jade peaks—was completely gone. The immense roar of the waterfall resembled a monstrous beast hiding in the darkness, roaring like thunder, a sound that chilled the heart.

The three of us floated in the pool, treading water. I told Fatty and Shirley Yang, "Success or failure hinges on this one move. You must be extremely careful not to let the bronze horse sink beneath the water eye. If that happens, we won't be coming back up."

Shirley Yang replied, "The water’s temperament is unpredictable; what happens underwater is hardest to foresee. If we can't easily enter the tomb passage through the vortex, don't force it. We can retreat and reassess our plan."

I told Shirley Yang, "As long as there’s life, there’s hope for a future, but once this favorable moment passes, we might never get another chance to enter this royal tomb. We must give it our absolute best today. If we still fail, then it is fate." Saying this, I flicked my hand and tapped my climbing helmet, activating the tactical spotlight. I lowered my diving mask, put on my oxygen regulator, made a diving gesture, and plunged first toward the bottom of the pool.

Shirley Yang and Fatty followed immediately, submerging into the water. At the bottom, the three of us found the bronze horse and the ropes secured to it. We firmly locked our safety catches together, ensuring triple redundancy. I raised the "Poseidon's Glare" underwater spotlight and swept the powerful beam around. We discovered that the black vortex in the center was completely invisible from the edge of the pool—nothing but blackness in all directions.

However, I was intimately familiar with the topography of the pool bottom. I swam first to the bomber’s fuselage. The huge, dark green body now served as a massive landmark; the direction pointed by the tail section was exactly where the mysterious "water eye" lay. Connecting the tail and the "water eye" was a streak of lapis lazuli. Following these underwater markers, even with poor visibility, we could maintain our bearing.

Conversation was impossible underwater, so we had to use hand signals. The dialect we used was called "Seal," not the standard German-style sign language used universally. This was mainly because the US Navy's system was simpler and easier to learn. I quickly taught Shirley Yang and Fatty the basic phrases we needed, mostly focusing on signals related to safety and direction. Shirley Yang immediately understood and released the inflatable buoy tethered to the bronze horse, letting it rise to the surface. This meant if our oxygen ran out mid-descent, or if our tanks malfunctioned, we could still temporarily share air through the hose connected to the float.

About a minute later, the buoy's air nozzle had inflated the bladder to about one-third capacity, reducing the bronze horse's weight somewhat. Underwater, we pushed the statue, steadily advancing toward the vortex at the bottom of the pool.

The mud, algae, and tiny aquatic organisms we stirred up began to drift around us, swirling erratically in the water, further obscuring visibility in the already pitch-black depths. I felt that the algal layer beneath my feet wasn't very thick; the bottom felt solid, almost paved with large, flat stones. It seemed the tomb chamber of the Xian King was indeed hidden there, boosting my confidence.

At this point, Shirley Yang, positioned slightly ahead, stopped. She clenched both fists and pressed her elbows downward—the signal for "Stop." Fatty and I immediately ceased pushing the bronze horse.

Shirley Yang turned back. Before she could make another gesture, I sensed it too: subsurface currents had begun to form. We must have reached the edge of the "water eye." Following the prearranged plan, I signaled Fatty: holding up two fingers, crossing them over my own eyes, and then pointing at him: "You lead; we will cover you."

Fatty formed a circle with his thumb and forefinger, keeping the other three fingers straight: "Understood." He immediately moved to the front of the bronze horse. Because his build was the stoutest of us three, he needed to be in front to ensure the statue wouldn't be pulled too deeply into the vortex.

With the heavy bronze horse and the three of us linked, we wouldn't be swept away by the current generated by the vortex, but we could still feel the suction of the undertow increasing. By the time the gaping black vortex was right before us, we were starting to lose control of our bodies. The bronze horse wasn't a single casting but assembled from several parts joined together; I worried if the currents would tear it apart. I quickly raised one arm, spread my fingers into a circle, clenched them into a fist, and made a rapid 'close together' gesture toward Shirley Yang and Fatty. The combined weight of the three of us, plus a heavy backpack, and the bronze horse totaled nearly a thousand pounds, which barely stabilized our center of gravity. I slowly released the safety lock, letting the long rope feed out one centimeter at a time.

Fatty pulled out two cold flares, striking them against his helmet. They immediately emitted smoke and cold sparks underwater. He held the two flares burning in his hands for five seconds, then let go. The two bright lights were instantly sucked deep into the vortex.

Behind the bronze horse, I couldn't see how the flares looked in the turbulence. I saw Fatty turn back, extend his right hand flat across his brow ridge, point down toward the vortex, and finally give a thumbs-up: Saw it, right below.

I anchored my body firmly, pointed at Shirley Yang and Fatty in turn, and tapped my own helmet: "Stay safe." Then the three of us clung tightly to the bronze horse, using the vortex's suction to sink slowly. It was only thanks to the horse's weight that we didn't immediately become disoriented and tossed about by the current upon descent.

As soon as we entered the vortex, Shirley Yang immediately pulled the inflation cord, filling the bladder to prevent the downward suction from becoming too strong and dragging us deep into the undertow. If the pool bottom was a large cauldron, the central "water eye" was a gaping hole in it. Even the advanced "Poseidon's Glare" performed poorly here; the light beam seemed reduced to a tiny matchstick, and visibility plummeted. At that moment, it felt like being dragged by malevolent spirits into boundless darkness within a terrifying cavern.

Fortunately, holding onto the bronze horse provided a steadying weight, and my heart rate gradually stabilized. Fatty was the first to spot the entrance to the tomb passage; it wasn't near the center of the vortex but almost hugging the pool floor, partially concealed by a stone ledge. If we hadn't entered the "water eye," we would never have seen it.

Seeing the passage found, Fatty, Shirley Yang, and I all exerted force together, maneuvering our linked mass away from the vortex's center, struggling until we swam into the passage.

The passage had no stone door; it was entirely filled with pitch-black, cold pool water. However, once inside, we immediately felt the pulling force of the undertow vanish. The large stone forming the entrance to this bluestone passage was set at an inverted slope, receding inward, completely unaffected by the force field of the "water eye" just a meter away. Despite this, we dared not relax, swimming another twenty meters deeper into the passage before finally stopping.

Having struggled with all our might in the "water eye," we hadn't had time to feel fear. Recalling the ordeal now, we realized any small misstep at any point would have left us as resentful spirits at the bottom of the pool. Still, finding the passage made the immense risk worthwhile.

We undid the ropes binding us and continued swimming deeper into the submerged passage. We took a moment to examine the surroundings. The passage was quite wide and level, with large square bricks on the walls and floor, capped only by large, long bluestones overhead. There were no murals, engraved inscriptions, or even guardian statues. Strangest of all was the lack of a stone door; it seemed the explosives we prepared would go unused.

But I quickly understood. This passage definitely led to the "Xuan Gong," the central chamber of the King's tomb. Because the Xian King was obsessed with immortal cultivation and longevity, he believed he could ascend to heaven after death, and he was confident no outsider would enter his tomb. Therefore, the passage wasn't sealed by a stone door. For grave robbers, a stone door is the most cumbersome barrier; whether there is one or not only changes the time and effort required to break through. The passage was long and narrow; we swam for a long time, still entirely underwater. I signaled Fatty and Shirley Yang to continue pushing forward. Judging by the scale of the terrain here, the "Xuan Gong," where the coffin and grave goods were placed, shouldn't be far off.

Indeed, after swimming a few dozen meters further, a stone slope appeared ahead on the bottom, and the passage widened several times over. Following the slope upward, we soon rose above the waterline of the pool. The moment our heads broke the surface, we saw a massive, grey-blue stone door, a thousand jin in weight, standing at the end of the passage slope.

I wiped the water from my face, overwhelmed with relief and excitement: "We finally made it to the place." I was desperate to break down the door immediately. Fatty, still in the water, pointed toward the top of the large stone door: "Hey, Old Hu, look up there... what's that little door?"

The small door Fatty mentioned was a miniature bronze structure perched at the highest point. It was entirely black, exquisitely crafted, with an opening just large enough for one person to pass through. The structure had eaves and was cast with images of soaring clouds and flying birds, seemingly symbolizing a realm high above the heavens. I told Fatty, "That place is called the 'Heaven Gate,' intended for the tomb owner to ascend after achieving corporeal liberation and immortality. Only Daoist tombs have them. But as for the beautiful prospect of ascending to immortality, those desiccated corpses don't even deserve to think about it. This Heaven Gate will serve perfectly as a ready-made thief's tunnel for us tomb raiders."

Having endured countless hardships, we had finally reached the threshold of the King's tomb's "Xuan Gong," and excitement surged through us. Shirley Yang, however, was still worried that the "Muchen Pearl" might not be inside. She suddenly asked me, "Were there truly immortals in ancient China?"